The Time Has Come
by Carleen
Summary: A young man of Skyrim out to prove himself worthy of all that life expects of him.
1. The Time Has Come Chapter 1

TITLE: The Time Has Come

CHAPTER: 1, Curiouser and curiouser!

SERIES: Skyrim - Skyrim Adventures

Story 1: To Take a Tree From the Forest

Story 2: What is Hidden in Snow

Story 3: The Time Has Come

Story 4: Starfire

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><p>"Where should I go?" -Alice. "That depends on where you want to end up." - The Cheshire Cat."<p>

― Lewis Carroll, _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass_

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><p>Run and he might live, stop running and he will certainly die. The stone floor is scummy with old blood and gore. His Nordic boots slip on the ancient stones and the air is thick with the stench of a thousand years of rot. More interested in finding treasure than using common sense the young man failed to notice the large brass object until it unwound itself and came after him. The Dwemer centurion is much faster, but he has the advantage of climbing and using cover where he finds it. A bronze tipped spear sliced across his cheek. He stifled the cry of pain and doubled his speed. Scrambling and stumbling, he sucked in a lung full of the miasma and pulled himself around a corner and into another dark corridor. The gloom is so thick he imagines he can touch it with his hands and move it aside like the drapes around his bed. If only he could use it to hide from the thing chasing him. Glancing down at himself, he sees fresh blood on his armor and realizes he's left a trail. It doesn't matter; his feet leave an easy trail to follow through the dust.<p>

The ancient Dwemer ruin intrigued him since he was old enough to hold a dagger in his hand. The ornate golden beams and strange looking pipes that led to nowhere, are a beckoning trail to an adventurer like him.

He slid to a stop inside a small antechamber, slamming the heavy metal door closed behind him. Falling heavily to one of the stone beds, he let his head fall in his hands. Trying hard to still his pounding heart and ragged breathing, he reaches inside his satchel. His fingers touch only a few crumbs of his last piece of bread. When had he run out of food? Yesterday or this morning? Just as the murky gloom pulled him in with the promise of adventure, the endless darkness has tricked him. He can no longer count how many days he's been here.

A small sip of water does nothing to sate him. He does not intend to join the family of skeletons that litter the hallways. The prize he carries around his neck is worth dying for, but today is not the day.

When his breathing finally quiets, the young man listens intently for the creaking sound of the centurion. Silence in the hallway teases him into believing the metallic creature has stopped searching for him. He unfolds himself from the bed to his full height of almost six feet. Tall he may be, but the truth is he's a boy of only fifteen summers. Occasionally, and if it suits him, he might lie and tell you he's sixteen. He might get away with it because he's tall and strong, with a square jaw, broad shoulders, and a shock of blond hair, which glints like burnished copper in the sun. He hates it when people notice his hair, because it's like a girl's hair and that makes him hate it even more.

The ladies at the inn tell him he's handsome. They tell him other things, too. They make him offers and promises that make him blush. Blushing is worse than the color of his hair. Not that he doesn't think about those _things_. The problem is everyone in the town where he lives knows him. Just the thought of the consequences if he someone saw him following a barmaid into a room or the woods made him blush harder.

The crash and bang of metal doors opening make him jump back startled. In one movement, he's crouching with his ax is in his hand, as a shield settles into his left. With a quick sigh of thanks to the Divines that it's only a Dwemer spider, he faces the new adversary. He's hungry, tired, and more than a little scared. He holds on to his bravado and takes a swing at the Spider. The self-assured arrogance of his youth allowed the spider to get too close. The electrical jolt of its attack sends a painful jolt up his arm and drops him to his knees.

Retching with pain, he lets himself fall to the side and rolls across the room. There is no doubt this thing will kill him. He reminds himself that this isn't the first time he's faced death since entering the ruins and summons the bravado again. With all the strength born of fear and the need to survive, he swings his right arm. The ax swings true and imbeds itself into the mechanism on top of the spider's head.

It's still moving, scrabbling horribly on the stone floor. He smashes his shield into it. The ax pulls free and he falls backwards. Before he can right himself, the spider dies with stray sparks wisping from the metal housing and the horrible glowing eye dims to nothing.

That was close, he thinks as dry heaves tear through his stomach and throat. He'd allowed the thing to corner him. His fighting master would be very angry with him about his carelessness. Well, he'd killed the thing hadn't he? No, that wouldn't be enough for his teacher. Every move must be done correctly. It doesn't matter if you're running for your life, defending yourself or just practicing.

When the horror subsides, he staggers to his feet and takes a long drink of water. The sudden wish that he was out hunting with his father, or sitting beside the fire with his mother is pushed angrily away. He is out here to prove himself and he will.

While he forces himself to wait a few more minutes, he strips the spider of valuable parts. Then he sees it, the dull gleam of a Dwemer sword hidden behind a metal dresser. Excellent. His pack is already full so makes the decision to trade his steel sword for the higher quality Dwemer artifact. If his parents would allow him to have a proper Nordic sword, he wouldn't have to trade away his steel sword. Searching further, he hopes to find a matching bow, but there's nothing more. From this angle,_ Praise the Divines, _he sees another satchel and leather change purse.

The satchel contains an apple and a quantity of dried beef. The apple tastes as sweet as a maiden's lips and he sighs when he sinks his strong white teeth into the firm red flesh. Not that he knows what a maiden's lips taste like. There had been that one time down in the kitchens when a serving wench had teased him until he'd impatiently pressed his lips against hers. The cook had walked in and he'd broken the touch so quickly he had no real memory of the sensation. His parents are strict with him and he's never out of sight of them, his tutors, or his fighting master. He's headstrong, impatient and always in a hurry to seek his own adventure. This feeling fuels a driving need to get out of the restrictive world of his home and the expectations of his parents.

As the food strengthens his body, the wound on his cheek begins to throb. At least it isn't bleeding anymore. What a fine scar he will have to show for his battle with the Dwemer soldiers. He finds a cloth to clean the wound and wishes, as he has many times, that he'd been patient enough to let his Mother teach him some magic.

He thinks of his parents, and wonders what they are doing. Are they worried about him? Worse, are they out looking for him? Two days before his fifteenth birthday, he waited until midnight and snuck out of the castle right under the noses of the court and the party guests. The whole town had been celebrating Skyrim's victory over the Imperials. The celebration was loud enough for him to walk down to the basement and out of the castle, through the crowds and out the gate. The night before, he'd filled a saddlebag with food. Now, dressed in his warmest clothes and best armor, he bid a silent goodbye to his parents. Then he'd mounted the dappled gray gelding his parents gave him as a birthday gift and galloped into The Pale. The horse's name is Silver and the young man is the only son of a Jarl.

He'd been galloping across the tundra for several hours when the sun began to rise. After watering his horse he kept up the fast pace until night fell again. When the sun began to set over the cold, icy land, he suddenly remembered, between his tutor, his bodyguard, the Court, and his parents, he'd never been alone in his whole life. There was no one to make him supper, lay out his clothes, or clean his armor. That was okay, because he was out here to prove to his parents that he is a warrior. He wouldn't go home until there were stories to tell and treasure to prove he'd succeeded.

When night closed over the open land of tundra, without removing his armor the young man curled inside his bedroll. While he lay there staring up at the brilliantly lit night, the whole of Skyrim came alive for him that night. The aurora flickered and danced in the night sky. The colors changed the face of the moons to purple and green, to red and back again. Several night creatures came up to watch him before scampering back to their hiding places. In the distance, wolves howled and called to one another. When his eyes finally drifted shut, he dreamt of a dragon circling over him high in the frosty night sky. The ice on its wings reflected the light from the stars and the aurora. He would never speak of the terror of those first few nights alone.

That night was a month ago and after stuffing the remaining food into his satchel, he peeked into the hallway.

~o0o~

The Jarl of Windhelm entered his chambers and joined his wife by the massive fireplace.

"Is he gone?" She asked wiping a tear from her cheek as if he'd caught her at something she shouldn't be doing.

"Aye, I watched him gallop away."

"We did the right thing," her statement came out more like a question than a statement.

The Jarl poured them each a cup of wine and joined her by the fireplace. He gathered her up in his arms and he held her close while they drank the wine and watched the fire.

Once, she'd been tough enough to face anything. Watching her first-born gallop into the night proved to the line she could not cross. She sipped her wine, told herself he would be fine and found strength in the arms of her husband.

They talked about the old days and their children. They cuddled together next to the fire and finished the bottle. Deep into the night, he pushed his wife gently down on the soft bearskin rug and made love to her with the same passion as on their wedding night.

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><p>"Curiouser and curiouser!" ― Lewis Carroll, <em>Alice in Wonderland<em>

"The time has come  
>The walrus said<br>To talk of many things:  
>Of shoes- and ships-<br>And sealing wax-  
>Of cabbages and kings-<br>And why the sea is boiling hot-  
>And whether pigs have wings."<br>― Lewis Carroll, _Alice in Wonderland_


	2. The Time Has Come Chapter 2

TITLE: The Time Has Come

CHAPTER: 2, Feels Like Forever

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><p>Alice- "How long is forever?" White Rabbit- "Sometimes, just one second." ― Lewis Carroll, <em>Alice in Wonderland<em>

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><p>While the Jarl and his lady wife lay curled together, enjoying the dreamless sleep of lovers. Their son is rousing himself from a stone bed. Curled to keep himself warm, he woke with a start and checked his surroundings. The door is still closed and the glass and brass amulet is still around his neck. Another night spent in his armor. He probably smells like a goat by now. Then he smiles as he imagines his mother's scolding for his forgetfulness.<p>

Once or twice he's imagined himself pointing out that she spent several years out in the world herself, adventuring and in her armor for days at a time. She brooks no smart-mouthing from him and he's very aware she could use magic or a Thu'um on him and he'd find himself flat on his back on the other side of the fire pit. No, he will keep his mouth shut on that subject. He suddenly misses them terribly and wishes to be home with is family. Lost and alone inside this Dwemer ruin, his structured life suddenly doesn't seem so intolerable.

High above the town of Windhelm, the morning sun finds its way into the Jarl's chambers in the Palace of the Kings. The Jarl woke with the warm sunlight on his face and gently separated himself from his slumbering wife. He watches her sleeping while he shrugs into his robes. The love he feels for her is as strong as their first days of marriage. In truth, he's loved her since he watched her eyes open on the wagon ride to Helgen. The ride, which would have been their their last moments alive.

He'd been so happy just to have someone to talk to. The only other occupant in the wagon was a whining, sniveling milk drinker of a man who cried out at every bump in the road. With Ulfric bound and gagged, there was no chance for conversation. But when she opened her eyes, he'd seen courage there. They were on their way to execution, yet she showed no fear. This was a type of courage most men didn't posses. By talking to her, she turned in the wagon seat. Ulfric had been staring down her shirt the entire ride. The thin linen of their prison clothes left little to the imagination. His distrust of the great bear Ulfric Stormcloak began at that moment.

He'd said to her, 'a Nord's last thoughts should be of home.' She'd simply nodded and closed her eyes again. The town was just over the next ridge. It wouldn't be long now. He wanted to reach out and comfort her. When they'd stepped down from the wagon she'd taken a moment to turn her back to his and squeeze her fingers around his bound hands. The fear of dying left him at her selfless gesture. When he watched her walk calmly toward the block, he wondered at the source of her courage.

Today, he watched that lady sigh in her sleep and turn over on her back. The movement exposed her torso to his gaze. His breath caught as he watches the steady rise and fall of her chest. The fine lines of childbirth left their mark on her pale skin. She hated the lines, but he loved them. Those marks represented their lives together, their love and the children they'd made together.

"Ralof, what are you staring at?" She asked in a teasing voice, not bothering to cover herself.

"I'm staring at the beautiful woman in my bed and thanking the Divines for blessing me with her favor," came his reply as he sat down next to her. She rose up and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"I love you, Vika." His hands carded into the wild mane of her long red hair. Ralof pulled her head back far enough to claim her mouth with his. "For as long as the Gods grant us," he breathed against her lips.

Three children were born over the sixteen years of their marriage. A seventeen year old girl, named Ingun, another girl, named Sigrid, who is ten summers at the turning of the year and their son, Einarr.

"I love you, Ralof. And I've something to prove it."

"Don't be silly, woman. You show me every day." But he stopped teasing when her face turned solemn. He wasn't accustomed to seeing the doubt in her eyes. "What is it. Tell me quickly." His hands gripped her shoulders.

Vika braced Ralof's face with her hands. Childbirth at any age was a dangerous time. Especially for those who lived on the farms or in the wilds, where a mage or an alchemist might not be nearby. For a thirty-two year old woman it could be a death sentence.

"Ralof, my love. I'm with child again."

~o0o~

When Einarr opened the door to his room and peered down the hallway, his sharp young eyes watched for movement in the gloom. He couldn't know that dawn was rising over the land of the Nords, or that his mother was pregnant. He couldn't hear his sisters weeping, because they were afraid for him.

Quietly gathering his kit, Einarr slipped out of his hiding place. No sign of the Centurion as he crept slowly down the wide hallway. Around him steam hissed and blew from ancient pipes.

Breakfast in the castle. He could taste it on his tongue. Sweet mead and thin cakes made from corn and flour, fried in oil. Venison, grilled with leeks, green apples and cabbage. Warm bread from the oven with fresh butter, eggs, sliced Eider cheese and red apples. His mouth watered at the memories and his stomach clenched painfully in answer. Stopping for a moment to allow the cramp to subside, he upended the water skin into his mouth and the last few drops of stale liquid slid down his throat.

Had the hallway slanted downhill when he first arrived or uphill? There was some snow on that staircase. Perhaps if he followed it, he might find the path to the outside. After an hour of walking where he diligently marked the trail with bits of Dwemer metal he located the hole where the snow had come in. Thirty feet above his head a teasing bit of gray sky winked down at him. Through the opening he could see the storm churning the clouds around. It began to snow and he gratefully caught the snow on his tongue and hands.

The snow sated his thirst for a few minutes. But as his hunger grew and weakness slowed his movements, he has forgotten the lesson every Nord child knows. You must melt the snow before you drink it.

He was so cold. Even his Nordic armor felt frozen to his skin. In his delirium he began to the remove parts of his armor he felt were hindering his movements. The damn frozen metal hurt his skin and joints. As he walked he dropped his gauntlets and his hauberk. Each step became easier and the lighter he felt as he walked along the cold dim hallway.

The Dwemer sword slipped from his hand and clattered to the stones unheeded.

He would sing a song. That would help him pass the time until he reached the surface.

"Our hero, our hero, claims a warriors heart.

I tell you, I tell you, the dragonborn comes.

With a voice wielding power of the ancient nord art,

Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes.

It's an end to the evil, of all Skyrim's foes.

Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes.

For the darkness has passed, and the legend yet grows,

You'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn's come."

Although he often complained that his parents were too strict. He took great pride in his heritage. His mother was the Dovahkiin, his father the Jarl of Windhelm. He would make his own mark on this world, in his own way and in his own choosing. In fact, he would go home right now and explain it all to his parents. He'd tell them about the amulet and how he was just a little scared. Maybe his Mother would put her arms around him, because she'd be so happy to see him.

Secretly, he thought his Mother was the most beautiful woman in Windhelm. No! In Skyrim!

Maybe she'd whistle down a dragon for him to ride home.

Maybe that pretty girl who lived on that farm… what was the name of that farm…? Hannah. Yes, her name was Hannah.

He began the song again, this time in his native language. His tutor would not be happy that he was forgetting the words.

"Dovahkiin... dovahkiin…?

naal ok zin los vahriin

wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal!

ahrk fin norok paal graan

fod nust hon zindro zaan...

Mother? fah hin kogaan mu draal…"

Singing took a lot out of a man. So he sat down next to a Dwemer table to rest. Somehow the chair he meant to sit on moved and he ended up on the stone floor. That's okay, he thought as he curled into a ball. In a moment, he'll get up and continue on his way. Just a moment more and he'll move.

Dark blind eyes patiently observed the young man from the shadows.


	3. The Time Has Come Chapter 3

TITLE: The Time Has Come

CHAPTER: 3, Survivor Instinct

AN: This is too short, but it seems to say everything I wanted to say. Thanks for stopping by.

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><p>"I can't go back to yesterday because I was a different person then."<p>

― Lewis Carroll, _Al__ice in Wonderland_

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><p><em>Dwemer... Deep-Elves... Deep Ones... People of the Deep... Lost Race of Mer... Dwarves.<em>

Einarr squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on what else he remembered about the Dwemer. The harder he tried to gather his thoughts the further they slipped from his grasp. No longer huddled to stay warm, he's flat on this back, with his eyes glazed over staring at the darkness. How they built those arches so high, he wondered, staring at the ceiling so high the tallest arch disappeared into the gloom.

_Advanced race... stonecutters, architects and engineers, science, mathematics, magic, and the academic arts…_ _and there's more, something he knows… something exciting..._

Finally, he stopped trying and stared up at the ceiling. His tutor tried so hard to teach him those things. He had no heart for it and chafed at sitting still for any length of time. A young boy with his whole life waiting to discover is impatient with mundane things like history, numbers, and politics.

_His parents were true adventurers… glorious battles… honor… respect. ...Battle of Red Mountain, Dwemer disappeared. _

The air is so thick with the reek of Falmer and death, his lungs fight to keep him alive. At least the shivering stopped. Finally, warm and his stomach quiet he tried to gather his strength. The idea of resting just a little longer seems better than wandering again. How had the Dwemer built those arches without a lifting mechanism?

The sound of scratching and scrambling footfalls raised his head off the floor. A blind creature rose up to its full height and waved its arms toward him. Einarr cried out when the impact of the frost spell knocked him six feet across the stone floor. The impact of his back and head against an ice-coated stone wall knocked him unconscious.

Four of them attacked Einarr, with their filthy clawed hands pawing at him. Forcing his body to obey his mind, he grabbed for his sword to fight back only to find his hand empty hand. Sharp claws touched his face, reaching for his eyes.

Were these the creatures he'd seen scrambling around in the darkness? Always just out of his line of sight and moving like shadows.

He fought and kicked, but there were too many of them and they stripped him of his clothes. His pack was emptied of its contents. Then something flashed, over his head, in the weak light. Einarr turned his face away from the arcing sword. His vision darkened.

"I'm sorry, Mother." he whispered, closed his eyes and prepared to die.

One of the creatures cried out and Einarr watched the creature fly backwards into the darkness. Another screamed in agony with an arrow pierced in his chest. Blood bubbled from its lips as it dropped to its knees and sprawled out in the dust. Enraged, the last one charged toward the young man. With space and time to move Einarr scrambled backwards. He didn't really care who fired those arrows.

Another arrow pinned the charging Falmer to pile of sacks. A Dwemer dagger hissed through the air to lodge in the fourth creature's throat.

A tall figure clad all in worn black leather grabbed him around the waist and hauled him to his feet. Red hair shot with silver spilled around the man's face, when he pulled back the hood. The blue eyes were filled with concern, but the smile softened any anger at the young boy's predicament.

"Lad, what're you about?"

Einarr smiled back and let his head fall against the man's shoulder.

"Good to see you, Grandfather." A long sigh went out of him. It would be good to sleep.

With a shake of his head, the man in the worn Nightingale armor picked the boy up in his arms and headed for the closest room with a stout door.

~o0o~

The Jarl of Windhelm rose from the bed and backed away from his wife. He couldn't lose her. Not her. Not his Vika. No, she won't die. She's the head of the Mage's college and a skilled magician. At a snap of his fingers, he could have the finest alchemist in Skyrim at her bedside.

"Ralof, did you hear me? What's wrong?" Vika shrugged on a robe and moved quickly to catch her husband. "What is it?"

"I must go," he shrugged and tried to make a joke of it. "I don't know why I lingered so long in these chambers." Then without so much as a kiss goodbye, Ralof hurried for the door.

Completely confused at his behavior, she closed the robe over herself and called for her maid.

The Jarl of Windhelm slipped out a side door without anyone seeing him. With fists curled in anger, he grabbed hold of the rough stones of the battlement and tried to calm himself. Scared is what he was, just plain scared. His only son is out adventuring and his wife is pregnant.

Slamming a fist into the stone, he stared at his bloody knuckles and cursed himself for getting her pregnant. To free Vika from any more pregnancies, maybe he should have taken a mistress. No, he loved her too much for that. There were no other women for him and there never would be someone like his Vika again. They'd fought together, rebuilt their world, and almost died together. They'd cried in each other's arms when the midwife placed their first born in her arms.

After Ulfric's downfall, he and Vika and the other Jarls had pulled together to finally pull the Legion's yoke from Skyrim's neck. Ralof stared out at the rising sun and thought about his next actions.

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><p>elderscrolls . wikia wiki  Dwemer


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